“Your marriage! What’s this idea? Since when has a hernia kept a man from marrying? Really, you hurt me, Hafez Bey!”
“Then you don’t think it’s anything to worry about?”
“A man like you,” said Haga Zohra, “strong and handsome as a lion, to worry about a silly little hernia!”
“Alas, it isn’t little!” said old Hafez. “It’s huge.” He hesitated a moment. “Don’t you want to see it?”
“I’d be glad to,” said Haga Zohra. “What wouldn’t I do for you?”
“Then get up and come look. I’d like to know your opinion.”
“I’ll tell you right now. By Allah, you’re worrying about
nothing.”
Haga Zohra pulled her melaya around her, breathing deeply to prepare herself for the effort she was about to make. Then with slow, measured movements, she managed to get up. When she was near the bed, old Hafez drew back the covers and exposed his lower abdomen. The hernia lay between his legs, surmounted by his stunted sex; it was like an inflated football. At this sight, despite her reputed courage as a hardy woman, Haga Zohra couldn’t repress a shudder.
“What do you think of it?” asked old Hafez.
“It’s nothing,” replied Haga Zohra. “I knew it before I looked, you’re frightened for nothing.”
“It’s huge isn’t it?”
“What are you saying? Why do you say it’s huge? My word, Hafez Bey, you’re dreaming.”
“Maybe. Actually, perhaps it is only a dream.”
“Don’t worry,” said Haga Zohra. “I’m going to massage it for you. You’ll see, it will go away in a few minutes. Just let me give you a treatment.”
She leaned over and expertly placed her fingers around the hernia. At first she trembled at the contact of this flesh, hard as a rock, but she quickly recovered herself. Very soon she forgot everything that had brought her to the house, her business as a go-between, the decaying old man moaning in his bed. Nothing existed for her but this strange thing her fingers were kneading delicately, that fascinated her with its horrible obscenity.
♦ ♦ ♦
Rafik woke up abruptly; he had been sleeping on the sofa in the dining room while he waited for Haga Zohra to come. He blinked his eyes, wondering how long he had been asleep, and cursed himself for having failed at his post. What if Haga Zohra had come while he slept? He thought he heard whispers upstairs. He listened, but heard nothing to confirm his apprehension. He stretched himself, making a painful grimace. He felt tired out; his limbs were heavy from his recent fatigue. He had just dreamed that he was a porter in a station, and that a thin, eccentric traveller, wearing a yellow tarboosh, had given him an old fashioned trunk to carry. It was an enormous trunk, and he had a horrible time lifting it on to his back. Then he had followed the traveller and they left the station. The man walked very fast, going down long streets, constantly changing sidewalks, not seeming to care where he was going. Sometimes he took perverse pleasure in walking down narrow alleys, where Rafik, with the enormous trunk on his back, only managed to pass by a miracle. This chase lasted an infinity; Rafik was out of breath from following the strange traveller. The weight of the trunk was crushing him, and each second he was ready to drop. Then, suddenly, the traveller halted, seemed to look for something around him, turned with a deliberate movement and burst out laughing in his face. Rafik, stunned, let go of the trunk, and it fell with a tremendous crash. and he woke up.
He still heard the traveller’s wicked laugh in his ear. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, it was the same laugh he had heard the night before at Imtissal’s. He remembered his visit to the prostitute, and felt happy to be free forever of that old, dangerous love. He was finished with her now. Her memory wouldn’t poison the sure joys of sleep any longer. He had no more to do; he had explained everything. But had she understood? No matter! He had definitely broken with the past. He would not be prey anymore to those regrets that had tortured him for two years.
Life was going to be pleasant, if he could only prevent his father’s marriage. This awful catastrophe still called for his constant watchfulness. True, there was the hernia; but the hernia wouldn’t stop Haga Zohra. She was even capable of transforming it into a thing of glory. Rafik knew he had to keep his eyes open; the least negligence on his part might ruin everything. He must keep Haga Zohra out of the house; if he had to, he could beat her, in spite of her great size.
He got off the sofa, walked around the table, and looked out the window. The sun was shining on the house across the way, on the perpetually closed shutters. Rafik thought of the women held prisoner by the vanity of their males and congratulated himself for being sheltered, protected from them by these walls. Because, without a doubt, they would have tried to seduce him with their idiot smiles and their honest whore’s tricks. He would not have been able to get away from the intrigue of these females who had no conception of a life without complication or scandal.
Again he heard whispers. And this time there was no doubt; he distinctly made out the noise of voices in old Hafez’s bedroom. He ran toward the hall, stopped at the bottom of the stairs, raised his head and listened. He was right to have been afraid; Haga Zohra was up there with his father. She had gotten in and gone up while he had been sleeping like an imbecile. He climbed the stairs slowly, taking care not to make any noise. He wanted to surprise Haga Zohra, to frighten her.
The door of the room was open, and the sight that met him left him dumfounded for a moment; he couldn’t believe his eyes. Haga Zohra was standing by the bed, leaning over his father, seeming to mould some invisible object between his father’s legs. The hernia! Rafik leaped to the middle of the room.
Old Hafez, without thinking to hide his nudity, cried out:
“It’s you, villain!”
“Yes, it’s me,” said Rafik. “And I’m going to kill this intriguer.”
Haga Zohra was holding her hands in the air, terrified and trembling. She wanted to speak, but her throat was tight with agony, and she could only utter feeble cries. Her enormous body wilted before this madman. Rafik went up to her, seized her arm, and pushed her toward the door. Then he gave her a great kick that sent her tottering down the staircase. She tumbled down the stairs, followed by Rafik, and fled like a hurricane through the sleeping house.
Then old Hafez began to cry in a strangled voice:
“Police! Call the police! Arrest the villain!”
XV
Uncle Mustapha was standing in the hall, nervously twisting his moustache; he was being put to a severe test. His brother, old Hafez, had imposed a delicate mission upon him, one very difficult to perform. The problem was to awaken Galal and persuade him to go up and see his father. Old Hafez wanted to talk to his eldest son about the latest events in the house. Uncle Mustapha had not been able to avoid this request, and now he was seized with misgivings. It was no small matter to awaken Galal, but to get him upstairs seemed pure folly.
However, after much hesitation, Uncle Mustapha decided to face the worst, and went into Galal’s room. As he expected, he found the young man sunk in a heavy sleep. His face emaciated and pale as that of a corpse, Galal was scarcely breathing, and he looked as though all life had long since left him. Uncle Mustapha paused for a moment, seized with horror at the sight of him. Then he put out his hand and touched his nephew’s shoulder. But the light touch had no effect. Uncle Mustapha braced himself again and shook Galal vigorously. At this the young man seemed to struggle in some dream, groaned, and finally opened his eyes. He looked as though he were coming out of the grave.